


A Little Bit Closer

by EarthsickWithoutYou



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-14
Updated: 2018-03-24
Packaged: 2019-03-31 08:22:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13971102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EarthsickWithoutYou/pseuds/EarthsickWithoutYou
Summary: After he moves to the Narrows, Alfred's melancholy new routine is shaken up when he falls for Tiffany, who's trapped in a dangerous life with an abusive boyfriend.  Is there a way for Alfred to help, and could Tiffany be the one to save him as well?This fic is for anyone else who started falling hard for the "Alfred saves damsel in distress" story in 4x12 before it came to a rushed, brutal and disappointing ending -- let's delve more into what might have been!





	1. The spark before the dark

Alfred’s long been a solitary man, and it’s never bothered him before. After all, when was the last time he went out to paint the town or even had a date? 

_Twelfth of bloody Nevuary, mate._

Ah, alright, well it hadn’t been that long, but sometimes it felt that way. And that was just fine, since drunken carousing was a scenario that hardly appealed. What else did people do at night in Gotham, really? Maybe there were things he’d have liked to have done, but it was so easy to put that aside, day by day. Partly, it was a privilege to put his own needs and interests aside to look after Master Bruce. But also…now that he was truly alone and had the time to think deeply on subjects he’d really rather ignore, Alfred knew he’d been procrastinating. If he didn’t have a life, nothing could particularly hurt him, ay?

_Until now._

First of all, it was utterly absurd that he kept referring to his former ward by his title of “Master” Bruce. How fucking subservient and pathetic had he rendered himself? It was humiliating to be cast out into the world like yesterday’s garbage, but here he was. Almost enough to make Alfred buy a pack of ciggies and find the bottom of a whiskey bottle, but he still has enough pride to make him keep his chin up and forge onward.

Bruce is hurting, traumatized from having killed a man, no matter how evil. Alfred knows this, and not being able to reach the boy hurts so much more than Bruce’s lashing out and his rejection. But still, he ponders as he puts up his coat collar in defense against the dull grey drizzle of this foggy night, it all hurts.

He shouldn’t go back to the diner; he’s only embarrassing himself with that pretty waitress. 

_Tiffany. Don’t pretend you can’t remember her name._

He’s an infatuated glutton for punishment, which is the only real explanation for pushing through that happy neon green door again, the cheerfully retro-kitsch colors of the diner just looking garish in this slummy part of town. 

She doesn’t belong here, in this farcical tin can of a place, Alfred muses. Then his breath catches slightly to see Tiffany right away. She’s wiping the counter down and a long, buttery-blonde curl escapes her updo. Her expression is dreamy and she’s humming to herself, lost in her own little world. Alfred would give every one of his last dimes — and that’s what he’s literally down to — to know her thoughts right then. 

“Oh! Hello, Alfred,” she says brightly when she looks up and sees him, like it’s a uniquely pleasant surprise. There’s amber and gold shifting subtly in her green gaze, then pink in her previously pale cheeks at the sight of him. 

_She’s not blushing, she’s just being nice to a customer. Stop forgetting she has a boyfriend._

Clearing his throat in a way he assesses as about 70% awkward, he slides into a stool at the countertop. “Hi there. Great to see ya. Could I get some coffee, please?” His voice is a rough, disjointed thing, at least to his own ears. 

Does he sound almost like he’s begging? Alfred touches his own cheek, which is still slightly damp from the misting sky outside. Yep, it’s burning now. _What am I, fifteen? Get ahold of yourself, man._

“Just a coffee?” Tiffany lifts her eyebrows in subtle bemusement, tipping the coffee pot into a mug before placing it before him. Leaning her elbows on the counter, she gives him a conspiratorial grin. “Sure you don’t want a bacon cheeseburger? Jerry’s here today, and he’s the good cook. Don’t come here on Tuesdays when Len’s back there.” She hooks a thumb towards the kitchen and makes a sour face that prompts Alfred to chuckle. “Or if you do, stick with coffee only.”

Well, if the sweetly expectant look on Tiffany’s face doesn’t give Alfred a heart attack, too many bacon burgers just might, so he orders a chicken caesar wrap knowing he won’t taste it anyway. 

He’d been coming in every few days for a couple of weeks now, ever since that awful day in court set Master— _ughhhh…_ set Bruce Wayne free from the meddling annoyance known as Alfred Pennyworth, ever since he started living with the maddening, implicit knowledge that there was now nothing he could do to help the boy. 

“It’s a funny thing, but I just keep getting this weird feeling that you’re actually more of a tea drinker,” Tiffany notes when she comes to refill his mug, and he can’t help noticing that she seems to be rushing through the other customers until she can return to chat with him again. 

“You’re quite right,” Alfred admits. But tea just reminds him of home, of the kid he misses like hell, loves like a son. “Good instincts. Or is it just my accent?”

“It’s everything. There’s something sort of…” She waves her hand in the air as if conjuring the right words to express her thought. “Well, there’s something very gentlemanly and polished about you, Alfred. You look like you take tea at four p.m. sharp every day.” She laughs at her own tangent and adds, “Just don’t tell me what it looks like I get up to.”

That old-school diner uniform is so damn fetching, he’s dead on arrival every time he sees her. Trying not to look too long at the way the outfit hugs her lovely curves, he picks his wrap up and sets it back down again, surrendering for once to his desire to look her directly in the eyes for several lingering moments.

“I bet you’re looking forward to a nice hot bath, maybe light some candles and play some music…then get into bed with a thick, all-consuming novel and disappear someplace else until it’s time to start dreaming the rest of the night away.” The words go rolling off Alfred’s tongue heedlessly and only when he’s ended the guess does he start worrying again. That he’s still gazing at her and he needs to stop. That his words are just a little too personal…but she doesn’t look away. 

“I—” Tiffany adjusts her apron strings, taken aback, even a bit startled. She bites her lip thoughtfully, and he thinks about kissing her right there, perhaps even sucking down on that pretty, pouty lower lip. It’s all glossed up in mauve and she smells like raspberries. Oddly, he doesn’t ever remember his sensory perceptions being quite so overwhelmingly intrusive in the past.

“You’ve got me dead on, actually,” she confesses. “How did you know?”

“Dunno, it’s just what—” Alfred catches himself before ending the phrase with “just what I pictured you doing,” thank God. He scrambles to tack on a more appropriate explanation. “It’s just what I’d probably want to do as well, after a long day working here.”

_It’s exactly what I’d like to do anyway, anytime. With you._

“Oh, and you know, I saw that.” He points to the battered and definitely over-read book that’s resting on the low shelf behind Tiffany, smiling at the image of the couple embracing on the cover. No one should be allowed to be so cute, Alfred thinks for the thousandth time. 

She giggles self-consciously. “Caught me.” She winks at him, actually _winks._ He’s such a goner.

He should go now, that’s what. His thoughts are starting to get harder and harder to hide until he’s a jittery mess over this woman, and given that she’s not available, it’s unbecoming, an imposition to take it any further.

Taking out the meager but neatly folded bills he withdrew from his anemic bank account that morning, Alfred makes sure he leaves an unreasonably large tip for Tiffany before turning to leave during one of her absences waiting on other people.

“Hey, where do you think you’re going, mister?” She props her hands on her hips, charmingly petulant. “We’ve got lemon meringue pie tonight.”

“Well, in that case,” Alfred relents willingly, already having started to dread going back to his dingy, depressing flat. “How can I resist?”

Tiffany looks almost as if she’s trying to conceal the extent of her satisfaction at his reply. But then she covers his hand with her own, adding “You won’t regret it” in a low, flirtatious voice. Alfred recognizes the instinct that kicks in next, since it’s been defining his side of their interactions all along. She catches herself out and overcompensates.

“S-sorry,” she stammers, yanking her hand back ruefully, and with a shy tremor taking over her touch just as it leaves him. 

Alfred doesn’t know what’s gotten into him, but he takes her hand again just for a second and caresses it before letting it go. “That’s quite alright,” he says huskily, but then he looks at her as closely as he dares, and he notices that there’s something wrong. An injury of some kind…dark, angry red scratching covering a bruise just at her temple, which has been carefully covered by her hair. He can make it out now, through the haze of blonde as she shrinks back, tracking the path his eyes just made.

A white hot poker of anger stabs his heart and he bristles in his seat, struggling to keep his rage inside. 

_Someone’s hurt her. That boyfriend, I’ll wager. And I’m going to…_

Alfred’s hands sink beneath the counter so that his painfully tight fists remain hidden from view as he immediately visualizes pummeling the life from the rotten git who has wounded Tiffany.

Gathering himself until he can speak rationally, Alfred nods to her forehead and asks, “What happened there?”

********************************************************************************

His eyes are so bright and pretty, he sort of takes her breath away. Especially now, maybe most of all now, right on the heels of those tentative, tempting touches between them, right as a new emotion sparks up in Alfred’s face. Tiffany’s never seen him like this before…he’s mad as hell, for sure. And what’s more, he’s downright…

_Protective._

This is dangerous. Tiffany has had this silly daydream for a while now, about Alfred sweeping her away from all her troubles, and it’s getting worse. She even pictures the hero in her current romance novel looking just a little like him, and the fantasy has snuck into her dreams more than once. She has to stop before Gil finds out, has to keep this tiny forbidden enjoyment safe from his tyrannous reach. 

“Oh, it’s nothing. I fell,” she says dismissively, patting her forehead, which still stings, though she cloaks the pain with a plastic smile. 

Alfred takes a long breath and releases it slowly, processing her words, which she knows he’s far too clever to believe. “Well, look, it’s none of my business, but if there’s ever anything I can do to help you, _please_ let me know. Ay?”

God, who could say no to that face?

Tears flood her vision; she’s a sentimental fool. “Mmmhmm,” she manages to reply, resting her cheek in her palm and looking away. He makes her feel safe, and that’s unquestionably addictive, but far from the only reason for his pull on her. Alfred is kind, thoughtful, funny, very smart, and…yeah, she knows the rest.

_Well, he’s just so dapper. Those suits, I mean who even dresses like that? Oh, who are you fooling, Tiff? He’s fucking gorgeous and you know it._

He even _looks_ kind of like one of the heroes in an old-fashioned romance, like maybe Edwardian or even the 1940’s.

She realizes that he’s plucked up the pen from the counter and started writing something on the back of the customer copy of his receipt. As usual, she intends to give him the pie on the house, and as usual, he’s left her a twenty dollar tip. Tiffany has no idea why Alfred’s living on this side of town, like some disinherited nobleman, but if he’s here out of financial necessity there’s no way he can afford to be leaving her those tips. She thinks about sneaking the money back into his jacket pocket.

“That’s my number,” Alfred announces, standing up and pulling down his waistcoat before shrugging his jacket back on. “And my address, too. Anytime, you call me or come to me, and I’ll help. I know it’s not my place to pry, but promise me that much, will you?” 

_Take me out of his hellhole, right now. Save me, Alfred._

Her begging thoughts could almost find voice, if all the oxygen wasn’t stuck in her throat, trapped by the fear which Gil has injected into her every living moment.

So instead, Tiffany just takes the paper, their fingers brushing again as a tingle runs through her. She has to hold back from bursting into full-on sobs at the unaccustomed feelings of pleasure he arouses in her. It’s been such a long, awful time since someone was nice to her that his gentle attentions almost hurt, and being so attracted to him definitely hurts. She can’t get enough, but this is doomed.

Stroking the precious slip of paper like the treasure it is, she nods, holding herself together as best she can. It’s not much, that fragile control of her composure, but it’s all she can do to ensure that the two men in her life don’t ever meet. That’s the only way to keep Alfred safe, and when it comes to him, Tiffany’s pretty damn protective, too.

“I promise,” she lies.

**************************************************************************  
It’s a cautiously measured procedure, one requiring her to wait for the right intervals to slip out from the respite of her bedroom and sneak down the hall, rising up onto tip-toes and making it to the fridge in plenty of time. Now Tiffany can pour herself a glass each of wine and water, then carry them back to bed with her to curl up with her book, long before Gil has time to finish up in the bathroom.

Setting her drinks on the bedside table, she pulls the sheets and the worn quilt up over her knees as she draws them to her chest, unfolding the page she left off on and getting away from it all as best she can. She would have liked to have brushed her teeth before going to sleep, after the merlot and dark chocolate squares with which she’s supplemented her jaunt into Victorian England and an arranged marriage which shockingly turns out to be the best thing that ever happened to the two protagonists. But Gil’s walking down the hall slightly earlier than usual, so that Tiffany has to rush to shut off the light, slapping her novel down nervously and slinking under the covers, pulling them up to her chin and closing her eyes, breathing deeply to imitate slumber.

Gil kisses her cheek, making her stomach churn, then he rolls over onto his back in the darkness. She waits for his ever-predictable snores, then takes her pillow to the living room and settles in for the night on the couch. This is a habit she must be very careful with, but Gil’s usually in such a stupor from whatever he’s imbibed or gotten high on that he’s too woozy to wake again until early morning. By four am, if she’s back in bed again, pretending it doesn’t make her skin crawl to lie there beside him, Gil will never be the wiser that she’s stolen yet another night of peaceful sleep.

She’d messed up the first time, and he caught her because she stayed on the couch all the way until seven. They’d had their worst argument yet the night before, although they’ve had ones since then that were so much more harrowing, she almost misses the simplicity of him backing her into the sharp corner of the end table, or when he used to put his hand around her neck _without_ tightening it and shaking her.

Anyway, that first morning of waking up on the couch found Gil hovering over her, waiting for her eyes to open. Tiffany shrank back, but he just shook his head and gave her a hurt look. “Why would you do this, Tiff? Come back to bed, baby, I don’t need to be in until ten today.”

As if he had a real job. She’s known for ages that he lied to her about that, and all he really does is sell drugs and help move other contraband down by the docks.

“You belong in the same bed with your man, Tiffany,” Gil reasserted more firmly, seeing that his attempt to feign hurt feelings wasn’t working on her. “I’d hate to lose my temper again.”

Then she’d had little choice but to follow him back into _her_ room in her apartment, where he’d moved in and claimed everything as his with no invitation from her once they’d been dating for a few months. It became clear very quickly that Tiffany didn’t have control over her life anymore, that he’d taken her choices away and everything was different now. If she reached out to her family, Gil would hurt them. The way he came after Tiffany at her every tiny rebellion was proof positive that he’d never hesitate about that. Lying in bed with him when he was awake was terrible, since it meant that she had to listen to his muttered tirades about how worthless she was, how lucky that a guy like him even gave her the time of day, much less loved her so much. 

It doesn't make any sense, since Tiffany knows logically that he's abusing her, that she isn’t to blame for his cruelty, that she is a good person with a lot of positive traits but over time, the longer she listens, part of her has started to believe Gil.

She’s usually asleep by now, knocked out by the ache in her bones from another long diner shift, but tonight she’s not sleepy in the least. She could linger there by the window, gazing out into the grim Gotham night until her phone alarm chirps that it’s time to creep back into bed. All she can see is Alfred’s face, concern etched across it, and all she can feel is the warm embrace of his slightly roughened fingers. How would those fingers feel pressed against her back, or cupping her face as he drew her in for a kiss? Tiffany thinks of the receipt with his handwriting on it, the one which she rolled up thinly and hid in her shoe. Running a hand through her hair, she lets her finger drift to her lips, imagining that it’s Alfred touching her. 

This is sweet torture. It won’t end well. Tiffany tries to shake off these reveries but the temptation to remain there is powerful.

Probably safe to go and brush her teeth now. The running water won’t wake Gil at this point. 

_Gil…_ He's so boyish-looking, his snide mask of a face surprisingly unmarred by the considerable amount of drink and drug with which he inundates himself. Gil couldn’t have been more different from Alfred; any comparison would fall apart before it began. Alfred is a _man_ , a real man, Tiffany thinks, blushing into the mirror as she replaces her toothbrush and wipes her mouth. She’s never been with anyone so sophisticated and intriguing, so effortlessly strong and confident. 

_I’m a disaster. That’s the one thing Gil says that I can’t argue._

Still, despite the whole crazy mess of it all, Tiffany’s fingers itch the whole night for that paper. _What if I call? What if I go to him?_

She can’t, not ever. Squeezing her eyes shut, she tries and fails to stop fidgeting. It seems impossible to relax or find comfort. _You can’t get Alfred involved, Tiffany. It would be selfish._ She massages the screen of her phone, thinking how his voice might sound right now through the small speaker, pressed to her ear. That delicious concept soothes her still at last, and she hugs the phone to her stomach until the alarm goes off.


	2. Never meant to break my own promises

Alfred can’t stop worrying about Tiffany, passing a restless night and then miserably forcing himself through a few interviews for meaningless jobs just to try and break even. 

_Damned stupid expression, that. When does anything break evenly? if something’s going to break, it is going to smash hard, and shards of whatever you once loved are going to stick in your heart till the day you die._

__

By lunchtime, he figures the hour of the day provides a fair enough excuse to stop in and check that Tiffany’s alright. But hey, if it happens to be perfectly obvious that he is going to the diner just to do that, he doesn’t care anymore. He shouldn’t even have left it with her so easily last night, but you can’t push someone to act when they’re already being pushed around enough as it is. How can he convince her that he can help get her out of the abusive situation in which she’s obviously trapped, while also conveying his utmost respect? He doesn’t want to look like one more man trying to control her life when all he wants is to save it.

The diner is open but nearly abandoned. An elderly woman tucks into a bowl of chili, newspaper held in front of her face, while the only other inhabitant of the place appears to be the owner’s dog, tied to the radiator as usual for however long it takes for the man to remember his pet’s existence. Alfred sneers at the combined health code violation and mistreatment of the animal, and he crouches down to pet the animal, murmuring, “Alright, there, boy. It’ll be fine.” 

A noise from the kitchen catches his ear, prompts him to slip behind the counter and gently push through the door. Tiffany’s by herself, neatly arranging dishes and glasses, and she’s singing. He’s frozen, rooted to the floor at the sound of her dulcet tones. She has the skill of a classically trained vocalist, yet she’s dedicated her deep, yearning rendition to a song he vaguely recognizes from recent top 40 radio.

“ _Everything is blue…”_ Tiffany sings softly, placing a stack of napkins into a plastic dispenser. “ _His eyes, his hands, his jeans, and now I’m covered in the colors, pulled apart at the seams—_ ” She startles and places a hand to her heart when she suddenly notices Alfred’s presence. He hates himself for the rude interruption, for ripping her out of that lovely dream world, the one he’s seen her drifting into more than once.

“Oh! I’m so sorry, it’s just.” Alfred’s mouth seems to be filled with sawdust and his hands are starting to perspire. He presses them against his grey trousers and fumbles on, “There was nobody out there, and—”

Her cheeks redden and she shakes her head, dismissing his apology. “Don’t worry about it, Alfred. Len’ll be back from break in ten if you’re hungry, but I’m serious. Keep your order unambitious if you value your tastebuds.”

“You have a beautiful voice, if you don’t mind my saying,” he says in another of these fits of boldness that keep taking him over. _It’s a reductive compliment anyway. She sings like an angel._

“I’m just a little embarrassed that you heard my secret concert,” Tiffany grins, pinching the air with two fingers. “I mean, the pots and pans seem to like my performances, but they’re the only audience I’ve had in quite a while.”

He strides further into the room, starting to assist in her work without preamble. She gives him a subtle look, one that shifts from questioning to appreciative, and they continue arranging the disorganized space until it looks halfway decent again. “What’d you mean in quite a while? Did you sing professionally at one point?”

“I went to school for it…college, I mean. Talk about your dumb, short-sighted choice of majors. A hundred or so bar gigs and failed auditions later, it was obvious I’d need a back-up career. For years after graduating, I taught voice and sight reading, but then eventually those positions started drying up, too.” Tiffany shrugs. “People in Gotham don’t have time for fanciful hobbies and cultural niceties. Not with the way crime’s been tearing through the place. Before I knew what happened, I moved to the Narrows with a girlfriend of mine, started working double shifts, playing out less and less. I wasn’t sure anyone was really listening, you know?”

“Why, yes, I think I do know.” Alfred tries to remember how it felt when Bruce heeded his advice with near-dutiful care. It’s an awful, empty thing, when you keep going on and on but no one’s interested anymore. Shouldn’t have happened to anyone so special as Tiffany, though. 

“My roommate got married and moved out, then shortly after I met Gil and the rest is history.” Her green gaze darkens, haunted, and her voice sounds flat, a strange effect coming from someone with a magnificent gift for melody. The look on her face says, _I’m history._

“Is it?” Alfred asks, going too far again, his arm brushing hers where it leans against the dormant stovetop. A shiver goes through him at the glow that lights up her face, but she misinterprets his reaction.

“Are you cold? I guess the backdoor’s still open,” Tiffany says thickly, her sensuous expression belying the simple question. A soft smile spreads her lips and she reaches over to rub his arms, very lightly, up and down, the way you’d do if someone caught a chill. Her gesture is caring and attentive, and also seems….like an excuse to touch him?

Alfred takes her hands very tenderly and holds them to his chest, taking a deep breath, ready to tell her how he feels. But her blouse shifts slightly, pulled away from her collarbone, until he catches sight of three small, circular red wounds just beside it. 

_Cigarettes._

“No,” he whispers fiercely. His head is spinning from the overwhelming mixture of emotions, growing affection, horror and fury until he’s leaning down, kissing the wounds one by one.

“Alfred,” Tiffany chokes out, and he jerks back in regret for his forwardness.

“I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have,” he says, raking a hand through his silver hair and trying pathetically to think of any excuse. “It’s wrong of me, I’m—”

“It’s not wrong,” she reassures him as a tear slides down her flushed cheek. “It felt good. I liked it.”

“I feel like I’m taking advantage of you when you’re in the middle of a dreadful crisis. But I promise, I’ll get better control of myself. Tiffany, please trust that I will, and come away with me now. I could never live with myself letting you go back there to him, not ever again.” He’s breathing hard, pleading until she falls straight into his arms, more tears immediately bursting out.

“Okay,” she surrenders, “I’ll—I’ll try.”

Carefully stroking the hair away from the bruising on her upper forehead, Alfred murmurs, “You can stay with me as long as you like. Have you thought about going to the police and showing them these injuries, explaining what he’s done?”

“I have, but what then? What’s to prove that he’s the one who did it? And then he ends up with a restraining order, which he’ll immediately violate, and I could be dead by the time he’s done showing me what he thinks of my behavior. Please, let’s just go before I change my mind.”

Feeling almost powerless, Alfred nods solemnly.

*************************************************************************************

“I was in the middle of my shift when we left, you know,” Tiffany announces with a touch of humor lightening the mood as Alfred unlocks the front door of his apartment and shows her in.

“Oh, well,” he smiles. Gesturing at the bare-boned nothingness of the place, he adds, “I’d say ‘be it ever so humble,’ but honestly, it’s a pit of despair unworthy of even that cliche. Less so in present company, of course…much less so. Here, have a seat. I’ve got a first aid kit — have you put any ointment on those wounds?”

“No, I just kept them clean,” Tiffany explains, sinking into a chair and looking around with interest. He’s done absolutely nothing with the place. It’s clean as a whistle, which is unusual enough for the Narrows, but there’s no personality to be seen, no framed photos of family and friends; no plants or signs of hobbies. Each piece of furniture is placed out of absolute necessity, with the sole indulgences a small television in the living room and a laptop on the other side of the table.

From her vantage point at the center of the apartment, she can see through all of the open doors to the few remaining rooms, and as Alfred returns with a small metal box in his hands, she concludes, “You’re punishing yourself.”

“There it is again,” he says, unbothered, seeming rather flattered, actually. “You’re figuring me out.” 

_Damn, that accent will be my undoing._

Delicately, he pulls the teal fabric of her uniform from her burned skin, beginning to apply a salve to the three spots where Gil’s cigarette seared her. His finger moves in a circle, just firm enough to get the job done, as he’s clearly endeavoring not to cause further pain. 

“Now, it sounds like you wouldn’t be at risk of infection, but this will help if they’re still hurting.” His jaw clenches and he’s trying to hide his anger again, badly. “And it will reduce the chance of scarring.” Screwing the cap back on, he walks to the sink and washes his hands before reaching for a shiny black kettle. 

“You know, suddenly I’m in the mood for tea again,” Alfred says more cheerfully. “Would you like some?”

“Sure,” Tiffany nods, looking down at her hands where they rest casually on the table. _Hmm._ Left to her own devices, she normally can’t stand sitting down, not still like this unless she pulls her knees to her chest, shielding her body, folding herself. But right now she’s fine, her body at rest, the only heightened sensation that of her strong interest in Alfred.

“You told me that a man found you after your time as a soldier when you were down and out and brought you to America, got you a job…that you became a part of that man’s family. Did something happen, Alfred? Is that why you’re holed up in this place instead of back with them?”

“Oh, goodness.” Alfred shakes his head. “Many somethings happened. Do you want caffeinated tea, or not?”

“Got any English breakfast? And any further elaborations on the story of Alfred Pennyworth?” She flutters her eyelashes and he laughs.

“I’ll give you both since you’re asking nicely. And here.” He slides a box of chocolate-raspberry biscuits towards her, following them up with a plate and napkin.

“Uhhhmm…where to begin.” He turns the stove on and adjusts the kettle on the burner, then comes over and sits across from her, his thumb landing on his lower lip. “Well, Thomas and Martha Wayne were murdered a few years back, leaving me in charge of their young boy Bruce. In the wake of that trauma, I took it as my sacred duty to protect the boy and make sure he had a good life, the kind of love and care that wealth can’t buy you. And we were happy together in our way, in our simple routines. Then he became a teenager and it all went straight to hell.”

“I have heard that that happens,” Tiffany notes with a sad smile. “I’m so sorry to hear about Bruce’s parents. He’s lucky to have you.”

“He doesn’t feel that way, not anymore, or he won’t let himself _allow_ me to be his father figure. See, he’s got an adventurous streak, my boy. And he only went and jumped down a rabbit hole into danger from which I could no longer shield him despite my best efforts. Looking back, I’m sure I messed it up, let him have too much freedom, missed the signs that it was all falling apart. Thought if I gave him sort of a structured autonomy, it’d be best for him, teach him strength. But…in the end, he killed a man. A man who had to be killed, mind you. An evil, horrific excuse for a human being, matter of fact, but doing it ruined Bruce.”

The kettle gave its shrill whistle and Alfred startled himself out of the past, pouring their tea and bringing it over, arranging the milk, sugar and spoons with a courtly organization which Tiffany associated with one particular career path.

“Alfred, you’re…you’re a butler, aren’t you?” She stirred her tea and took a grateful sip.

“So I am, or _was._ Guess it shows, though that calling is about as desired in Gotham right now as a vocal coach. Don’t know what to do with myself anymore, especially without Master…without Bruce. He’s out partying every night, drinking himself blind and hooking up with every spoiled heiress to be found. Doesn’t want to hear it from me about the consequences of debauchery. He’s a runaway train with a ticking time bomb on board.” Alfred stares at his teacup with a hollow expression.

“Hey, look, you can’t blame yourself for what happened. You did your best.” Tiffany is taken off-guard when he responds to her comforting smile with an insightfully scrutinizing look.

“So how has that been working out for you, Tiffany? Don’t tell me you blame yourself for getting involved with a man who turned out a villain. I’ve got a bad feeling you might…maybe it takes one self-blamer to recognize another.” He’s so intently focused on her that he splashes tea on his immaculate white shirt, the hot liquid making him wince. Patting at himself with a napkin, he says, “Don’t usually do that.”

“Am I distracting, Alfred?” She’s back at the flirtation again, can’t help it and doesn’t want to.

He looks her over from head to toe. She’s sitting sideways on her chair, stretching her legs out, her black-stockinged toes wriggling contently beside the shoes she’s kicked aside. As his rather enveloping azure gaze works its way admiringly back up to her face, he replies simply, in a low voice, “Are you going to answer the question, Tiffany?”

“Right.” She stands, walks to the window and plays absent-mindedly with the curtain. “Yes, I blame myself, and I _should._ There were warning signs, like you said about Bruce. In my case, there were signs that something was off, wrong about Gil. The way he wormed his way into my life without me really asking him in, making me feel badly about pushing him away when he was so devoted to me. How he started taking on all of my hobbies and interests like they were his ideas, calling my friends and canceling plans on my behalf, not…” Tiffany puts a hand to her forehead as a headache blossoms due to the hard subject matter. “Not asking if I wanted to be intimate before he just…started in on me.” There’s a edge to her voice now despite the wobble. 

Alfred can’t listen any longer without approaching her to offer some solace, but he’s determined not to betray the trust she’s placed in him by being too physical. 

_Again, he’s the polar opposite of Gil._

“I can’t stand to hear these things,” he admits brokenly, obviously longing to touch her. 

_Please just hold me again._

They’ll need to move at a pace that makes them both feel comfortable, and if Alfred wants to take on this restrained attitude because it allows him to believe he’s doing right by her, Tiffany can try to be patient. Even though she wants him touching her, wants it with a raw desire that feels almost untamable. It is odd, to be so romantically immersed in one man that talking about the terrible things another has done to her does nothing to diffuse the connection she now feels with Alfred.

Odd, maybe, but it’s also very special to have met someone who brings these feelings out in her, like no one’s ever been able to before.

“I think it’s good that I tell someone, that I unburden myself…I think it’s good that you did, too, Alfred. We can be here for each other, right, tell each other anything? Thank you for listening.” 

“Will ya…at least work on not blaming yourself?” Alfred crosses his arms as if it’s the only way to keep from reaching out to her.

“Will _you_?” Tiffany steps closer and he chortles.

“Touché. Yeah, I’ll give it a go if you do.” He extends his hand and she shakes it with great aplomb. “It’s a deal. Oh!” Something suddenly occurs to him and he heads to the refrigerator, coming back with a large, very fresh strawberry from which he’s plucked the stem. “Here, you gotta try one of these. I saw them in the store yesterday and couldn’t resist.”

Tiffany takes a bite, unable to resist eating in a slightly suggestive manner that makes him look at her, then look away and repeat the cycle, whipping her into a fervor of craving for him until she just has to laugh.

“Alfred, if you’re so dedicated to the art of not flirting with me, you might not want to keep doing things that just carry certain…ardent implications.” She chews and swallows, and he starts stammering.

“ _Oh,_ well, I didn’t mean — that is to say, I only wanted to—”

Tiffany takes his hands and holds them for just a few beats before gently dropping them. “It was a delicious strawberry, Alfred. Thank you.”

“‘Ardent Implications’?” He repeats, as if just fully taking in what she’s said. “Is that the title of one of those novels you’ve always got your nose in?”

“Maybe it is.” She runs a nervous hand over her hair and the motion seems to incite a realization in Alfred.

“Dear me, where are my manners? I’m sure you’d love a shower or a bath right about now.” He is too fucking sexy for words. She’s going to lose it.

“ _Alfred,_ ” Tiffany accuses playfully, “You’re doing it again.”

“Arrghh, no, I simply meant, I will get you some towels, and….” He sighs, flustered. 

“That sounds perfect,” she replies, her tone returning to a more casual and friendly one, letting him off the hook before he has some kind of anxiety attack brought on by being too much of a gentleman. He’s a rarity, a spectacle, even, and she’s so glad to be here in his space. If it were up to Tiffany, she wouldn’t miss a minute of Alfred Pennyworth.

****************************************************************************  
He’s never seen Tiffany in anything but her diner uniform, so when she comes out a while later wearing his pajamas, Alfred does a distinct double-take. The blue-green flannel plaid set is baggy on her, but she’s so effortlessly alluring that it looks absolutely right, especially the way the top hangs slightly off one of her creamy, smooth shoulders. Her long hair is straight when it’s damp, the darker shade throwing her gold-embossed emerald eyes into sharp relief. Without foundation or blush she’s strikingly lovely, though more vulnerable in appearance, and when she comes over to sit beside him on the couch, Alfred can’t help but notice that her lips are chapped as if she’s been biting them anxiously.

“Whatcha reading?” Tiffany inquires, peeking over his shoulder. She smells of the ivory soap he keeps in his shower, but there’s a natural feminine aroma beneath, like a rain-soaked meadow newly warmed by sunshine. Honestly, he might have been able to deal with her scent, or even the fact that _God,_ she is wearing _his_ clothing (the fabric which regularly touched his skin is now resting over hers!) — but it’s the sweetly riveted way she looks at his face just then that decides his next action.

He kisses her mouth without thinking, throwing the book aside with careless unconcern. She moans softly, pressing her fingers to either side of his face to draw him in closer, opening her mouth to invite in his tongue. He sighs in pleasure, easily deepening the kiss and tasting her, realizing in some distantly still-functioning part of his brain that she’s put lip gloss on again, so that the fresh mint flavor left behind by the toothpaste is balanced by a sugary berry taste. It’s a long, shamelessly passionate kiss, wet and insistent, and he has to drag his lips from hers several minutes later in order to whisper his apology. 

“Don’t,” Tiffany urges, climbing onto his lap and placing his hands on her waist. “Unless you want to stop. This has nothing to do with anything but the fact that I’m falling in love with you, Alfred. I know it, and you feel it. My eyes are open and this isn’t my gratitude or some passing infatuation…I’m not seeing you through some haze of desperate trauma, I. I see _you_ , and when we’re together, that’s all I want to be. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” he says thickly, running his fingers through her hair, loving the silken flow of her locks gliding through his grip. “I understand. I feel the same for you.”

Maybe she hadn't been quite sure about his feelings up till this. Could be, Tiffany assumed he was more concerned for her welfare than attracted, more inclined to be her friend than her lover. But his behavior now, coupled with the devoted ache in his voice, it has to be showing her how much he wants _both_. 

“There’s only one thing I wanna give ya, darlin’, and I’d like that to be very clear,” he elaborates in a rich, throaty tone that captivates her as she keeps staring into his eyes. “Exactly what you want.”

A blush spreads deeply across Tiffany’s cheeks and she presses her lips together, never looking away. When she speaks again, it’s with an overwhelmed excitement that shakes her quiet words. “Then I think you’d better take me to your bedroom.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Some lyrics from Halsey's song "Colors" are included in this chapter.  
> *Chapter title taken from the song "Promises" by Ryn Weaver


	3. I ain't going nowhere, except somewhere with you

They kiss their way to Alfred’s room, fingers tumbling over buttons until Tiffany’s pajama top is on the floor along with his white v-neck t-shirt. When she places her hand just under his neck and drags it down to the waistband of his soft grey cotton lounge trousers, Alfred backs into the doorjamb and hits his head with a smack. They laugh quietly and she cups his head.

“You okay?” Tiffany watches his eyes, wide with arousal, taking in her naked torso, the profile of her breasts rising and falling quickly in the dim lighting still shed by the lamp in the other room. 

“I’m fine, love,” he answers easily, taking Tiffany by the waist and making her shudder at the feel of his warm, firm touch on her bare skin, just before his fingers stroke across her back and she sighs shakily. Alfred adds, “It’s just that the mere thought of you moving that hand any further down seems to meddle with my center of gravity.”

“Gravity…so overrated,” she whispers, using her grip at the back of his head to push his lips to hers, just as he wraps his arms around her and lifts her right off the ground, carrying her to his bed. Tiffany glances around for just a moment after landing and he hovers between her hips, gazing at her with curiosity.

“What are you thinking?”

“That this room has exactly and almost only what I want most in the whole world. A bed,” Tiffany explains, slipping her fingers into his trousers as he gasps and she adds, “And you.”

She slides her hungry hands over his bottom and his hard-on rubs against her center, inspiring her to cup her fingers around his length until his breath catches in his throat.

It’s a dream come true, making him fall apart for her, getting to lightly pump him just enough to elicit another jerky, surprised gasp. “ _God,_ ” Alfred groans as she pulls down his trousers, then easily maneuvers him upright by his shoulders.

“You don’t have to,” Alfred pants, fingers moving sloppily in her hair as she lowers her mouth to take his rigid, pulsing member inside. “This should be about making _you_ feel good, like you deserve…that should come first. Oh, holy fuck!” He grabs her hair more tightly as she goes from kissing to licking, then slides him in with a long, hot, wet stroke.

“Alfred,” Tiffany murmurs attentively, coming up for air, “I’ve heard about how you take care of others, I’ve felt you taking care of me, and all I could think was…who takes care of you?” She sucks him some more until his hips jerk forward, electricity shooting down her spine at his eager response, the taste and heat of him against her tongue, filling her mouth. “I think _you_ should come first this time.” 

Committed to the goal, desperate to feel him lose control entirely under her power, she goes on with such enthusiasm that he’s soon bucking against her in shocked tremors. When Tiffany lets him go, Alfred takes a few ragged breaths to collect himself, and then grins at the little squeal she lets out when he grabs her and gets her onto her back beneath him. “Your turn,” he says in a bit of a growl that makes her bite her lip in anticipation — he sees this and raises his eyebrows before licking along her lower lip. “Nice to see you doing that for a good reason instead of because you’re nervous. What do you say I relieve you of every anxiety, darling?” Alfred’s accent, she decides, combined with the husky vigor of his tone, should be fucking _illegal._

“Mmm,” she gets out as he sucks her bottom lip and then nips at her neck, tiny bites soothed by quick licks until it’s _her_ hips that are out of control, rolling up against him. The room is shadow-drenched, but they can see what matters: the light in each other’s blue eyes; the chaotic breaths racking their bodies…and he can see what’s been done to her in more detail than ever. 

“No,” Alfred sighs sadly, kissing the bruises just under her ribcage, the soft part where it hurts the most, making Tiffany moan. He does have the power to heal her. 

“Use your tongue,” she begs, and he complies, though conflicted and torn apart by yet another realization of the abuse that’s been rendered on her. Tiffany closes her eyes and tilts her chin up as he lavishes open-mouthed kisses to the purple blossoms, and it’s almost as if nothing can ever hurt her again. He trails his kisses up to her breasts, swirling his tongue around one stiff nipple as he lightly squeezes the other. 

“You like that?” he inquires as she nods, her hands all over his back, wanting more. “I want you to feel the best you ever did.” _Mission accomplished,_ she thinks sharply, especially when he touches her over the front of her pajama pants and finds that the fabric of the borrowed garment is wet, soaked with the scent of her longing. 

“God, love,” Alfred sighs in disbelief, tugging the trousers down and off, brushing his lips against her ankles, kissing up her calves until he reaches her thighs and squeezes them. He presses his lips to her entrance with an intentionally teasing tentativeness, her helpless cry and the rougher motion of her hand on his head urging him on. “Yes,” he breathes, kissing her again and then dipping his tongue inside her until she can hardly remember the point of oxygen. “You’re so fucking exquisite.” 

She rests her legs over his shoulders, toes stroking against his back as he tastes her deeper, runs her ragged with mounting tingles of delight, adds a finger, then two to get her screaming his name as her back arches and stars explode against the darkness of her closed eyes. Alfred licks his fingers and just watches as Tiffany slams her palm against the mattress and stares at him aghast. Then he caresses her face, resting the back of his hand against her lips, then her soft, flushed cheek.

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” he says excitedly, beyond thrilled to have brought her such pleasure. He looks like it’s Christmas morning and someone just gave him the present he wants more than anything else, and Tiffany understands with this swift analysis of his expression that yes, she really does love him.

“I want all of you, Alfred,” she pleads with aching sincerity, and he nods, soon pushing his hot length inside her as they go on kissing, as he starts out slow and easy before thrusting in to the hilt, getting Tiffany to scratch his back as he gives that insanely sexy growl again. 

“Don’t stop, don’t stop,” she whispers, clutching him as tightly as possible. He proves once more that her wish is his command, slamming in harder and faster as the rhythm builds. Finally, her fingers weaken under the force of an orgasm so intense, she lets go of him completely, head collapsing against the pillow. Having used his hold on her hips to drive into her as deeply as possible, Alfred keeps her steady, adding one more thrust until he comes hard enough that his own fingers shake on her sweat-slicked skin, his eyes going dark and glazed. 

They slip under the sheets, which feels like hard work given their heavy, buzzing limbs and racing hearts, but it’s worth it to snuggle up together. Tiffany nestles against his chest, hand on his heart as he kisses the top of her head. “I hope I wasn’t too rough with you,” he worries, and she looks up at him in surprise.

“No, of course not,” she assures him, watching the tension leave his face. “You were perfect, Alfred.”

“I’m not though, you know,” he points out, rubbing her back, pulling the sheets up to her shoulder as she rests her leg over his, rather possessively, if she’s honest with herself. “Not perfect. I’m a mess.”

“Who isn’t? Anyway, you’re _my_ mess — that is — if you want to be. And I like you just the way you are. I wouldn’t change a thing.” 

“I want to be yours,” Alfred murmurs. “And I wanna protect you, Tiffany, make sure nothing bad ever happens to you again. Because I promise you here and now, I won’t be standing for it. If he comes anywhere near you, I’ll choke the life from him without batting an eye.”

“Doesn’t it kind of defeat the purpose if you end up in jail?” Tiffany tries to soothe his rage, even though a part of her loves it, his instinct to stick up for her, guard her, be her knight. He smells amazing, and she doesn’t even care if it’s obvious she’s pressing her nose to his skin and sighing contentedly. “Just…like punch his lights out for me, okay?”

“How can you be so calm about it?”

“Because I care more about keeping this,” Tiffany tells him with her whole heart, lacing her fingers through his, “Than what happens to Gil. The only thing that really bothers me is thinking, once I’ve been gone long enough, assuming he ever stops trying to find me, what if he finds someone _else_? And what if they suffer because I never came forward and exposed him for what he is?”

“Right you are. I think you ought to reconsider speaking with Jim Gordon. He might be able to help us find a solution.” 

“Hmm, I’ll sleep on it,” she promises. “Maybe I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll talk to Gordon if you swear to me that _whenever_ Bruce Wayne contacts you, when he wants to make amends and needs you back with him, you talk to him. Hear him out.”

“Aw, now really,” Alfred complains, making her laugh. She elbows him playfully, then kisses his mouth before he adds, “What makes you care so much about what happens to an ungrateful, out-of-control brat like him?”

“Don’t _you_ be a brat, Pennyworth. You’re not fooling me for a second. I care because you care — it goes without saying that if the two of you never find your way back together, you’ll always have a piece missing from your heart, always wish it had gone differently.” 

“You have that particular sort of wisdom about you that is outstandingly exasperating,” Alfred grouses affectionately, making Tiffany’s eyes sparkle.

“How exasperating?” She climbs on top of him and he drinks in the sight of her body as his hands instinctively shoot back to her hips and she licks her lips. “ _Oh_ ,” she adds as he grows hard again beneath her and she traces his mouth before leaning in to claim it a few hundred more times — or so she hopes. “ _That_ exasperating. Very good.”

************************************************************************************

The sun wafts through the cracks in the blinds and Alfred blinks lazily, dually astonished and comforted to find that Tiffany is still wrapped up in his arms, snug and as adverse to waking as he was a moment before.

“Mmm,” she says, giving him goosebumps with her swollen lips, pink cheeks and bedhead hair. “I never want to move again…you know, except for maybe…”

“You need to eat sometime,” Alfred reminds her playfully, but she just grins at the opening he’s provided. 

“Couldn’t agree more.” She’s so thrilled whenever she gets him to blush that he fails to see the point in minding it.

“You’re a bad girl, Tiffany Gale. But I’m here to make sure you have all the sustenance you need to continue being one.” He winks, getting up and pulling his trousers back on as her eyes stay glued to him, roving up over his ass and enjoying his upper body. Alfred thinks he’s an ordinary enough looking bloke, in relatively decent shape for his age and as many times as he’s been knocked about by life. He does his best to keep fit, yet doesn’t consider himself anything special to see. Still, she glows as if he’s a magnificent sight.

“How selfless of you,” she laughs, throwing a pillow at him. He catches it and places it back where it goes with mock formality. Butler mode. Alfred knows she likes it and doesn’t at all mind making the most of the fact.

“Really, though, is it always going to be like this?” Tiffany sits up and stretches, the adorable yawn she gives enough to get him hard again thinking about how her lips felt around him last night, the stroke of her tongue and the way that pretty pink mouth could be applied to just so many wonderful past-times. Still, he does feel that she should have a good breakfast in her. They wore themselves out last night. 

“What, d’you mean, with me waiting on you and such?” He doesn’t bother with his t-shirt because the way she’s staring gives him a reciprocal thrill that’s too good to let go of until he has to. “I can’t help it, that’s just how I am. I love doing it.”

“I love it too,” she admits, crawling across the bed and taking his hands. “I love _you._ ”

Alfred is truly afraid his heart might just explode in his chest. “I love you, too,” he murmurs, looking at Tiffany with the distinct and fresh fear that maybe this won’t last, perhaps one day he might lose her. The thought is unbearable. “I’ve got to watch out for you, no matter what, and you know it.” 

A promise. A warning. She nods.

“I do. Just remember that it goes both ways.”

*****************************************************************************************

“Alfred, come on now,” Tiffany giggles as she sits down to eat, glad she chose to throw just his bathrobe on after showering because he clearly likes how it looks on her. Crossing her legs, she sinks her fork into the scrambled eggs, scooping them onto a piece of toast. “How much do you think one girl can eat? Famished though I may be. You’ve outdone yourself.”

“Oh, you ain't seen nothin’ yet, love,” he promises with that infuriating wink again. She thinks he should have to pay a price determined by her alone every time he has the nerve to flash it. They’re just lifting their glasses of orange juice to their mouths, holding hands across the table, when they hear a huge explosion outside. Alfred sets his glass down and hurries to the window. “I’ll be back,” he vows, grabbing his shirt, socks and shoes from the bedroom and throwing them on before rushing to the door.

Tiffany looks over and sees the smoking building across the street. Another day in the Narrows. Has she let herself become too numb to the horrors without because of those which have been killing her within for so long? Watching Alfred’s unflappably determined look, she thinks so. 

“Hold your horses,” Tiffany commands, following his lead and dressing so that she can go with him. “You’re not going in there alone. I’ll help.”

He opens his mouth to object, even looking angry in his desire to keep her safe. But she yanks the door open and starts taking the stairs two at a time so that there’s no debate. “Are you coming or what?”

They’re sweaty and smoke-streaked as they guide a group of survivors from the smoldering frame of what was once the central headquarters of those wielding authority in the Narrows. These days, someone named Doc is in charge, though Tiffany’s never seen the person, doesn’t even know if it’s a man or woman calling the shots these days. 

“Alfred,” A man calls, prompting him to squint through the slowly dissipating smoke, a look of immediate recognition crossing his face. The handsome, perpetually stressed-out guy is familiar to Tiffany from oh so many t.v. news updates over the last years, filling viewers in on whatever awful trauma happened to have Gotham in its grip. It’s current police captain James Gordon.

“Jim,” Alfred nods, straightening as paramedics see to the wounded people he and Tiffany have helped to safety. He coughs and Tiffany rubs his back with a concerned frown. 

“Hey, take it easy,” she urges. He leans on her and she does the same to him, and it’s just right. 

“Captain,” Tiffany greets Jim, extending her hand. “I’m Tiffany Gale. It’s nice to meet you, albeit under regrettable circumstances.” Jim looks confused as he takes in the sight of the obvious couple. 

It’s a little like Jim never knew Alfred was relationship material. But she knew it from the first moment he spoke to her.

“Likewise,” Jim answers politely, his mind obviously working overtime in the wake of the attack, and she's sure there are a few other puzzling cases bothering him at the same time. “Alfred, you live out here now?”

“I do. Got fired, ended up in this neighborhood with near-empty pockets, met Tiffany here and honestly couldn’t be more glad I _did_ come to the Narrows. Exploding buildings and continual angst aside, it’s been…such a happy accident.” Alfred’s hand rubs Tiffany’s shoulder as he says the words, carefully avoiding the burns just below it, and she knows he’s proud — proud of her quick action in wanting to help today, proud to be seen with her, pleased as can be that they’re together.

“Good for you,” Jim says, meaning it but haunted deep inside by his own problems. “I hope you and Bruce can find a way to patch things up, though.”

“That’s up to him, isn’t it?” Alfred gives Jim a knowing look and continues, “By the way, I might say the same about you and Harvey Bullock.”

“It’s complicated,” Jim admits, pinching his brow and then rolling his shoulders back.

“Listen, mate, I know you got about a million things to do right now, but when you get a free bit of time, can we talk to you? It’s about Tiffany, and it’s important.” Alfred’s serious look now gives Jim no reason to doubt this is a priority, so he nods, smiling for the first time since seeing them, as if he only lets his mouth do that when he thinks it might offer someone else comfort. Tiffany understands how the two men could have become friends. They have important and endearing commonalities.

“I’ll let you know as soon as I get a space cleared in my schedule later,” Jim says, though she can tell he’s more hopeful of that happening than able to guarantee it.

When Gordon walks away, Tiffany hugs Alfred, whispering, “Thank you.”

“It’s nothing. Now come on, let’s go home. Look at the state of you, can’t take ya anywhere. Might have to have another shower, wouldn’t you say?” 

“I don’t know, Alfred, I’m so worn out at this point. Who knows if I could get through that without assistance?” Her teasing words earn her a dirty-faced grin she could live off forever.

“I live to serve,” he reminds her.

*******************************************************************************

She tells Gordon the whole story that evening, down at the station. He writes it down and winces before he says, “I’m sorry, but I have to ask, did Gil ever force himself on you sexually?”

How many times must Gordon have asked that question during his career as a cop? Yet it still pains him to form the words. Somehow, it seems to match the squeeze Alfred gives her hand until she smiles softly, never having felt more supported.

“No…I never wanted to find out what would happen if I said ‘no,’ so usually I would just make an excuse to try to get out of it…or endure it if he still wouldn’t back off.” She lets her eyes sweep over the police station to avoid Alfred’s quiet, seething fury, though his touch remains utterly gentle, caressing her fingers.

“We’ve got enough for a restraining order…I know it isn’t the solution we’d all prefer, but now we have a record of your complaint, and he will be breaking the law if he comes near you again. It’s not nothing, Tiffany. I suggest that you go through with it.” She nods as Jim flips his notebook back over and stands, leaning on the chair back.

“Okay…let’s give it a try,” Tiffany agrees with a wobbly smile, though her courage feels fortified.

They go for a long walk after that, she and Alfred, just holding hands and breathing the night air. For Gotham, for the Narrows, it’s pretty much an ideal sort of night. In lieu of the grey fog and drizzle that seem to hover always over the city, tonight it is clear, the black endlessness above marked by brightly winking stars. When Tiffany inhales, she notices the smell of flowers from the street vendor and the fresh bread dough which the baker can be seen kneading through the open door of his shop instead of the usual garbage-and-misery blend that previously seemed to define these streets. Has her outlook on things changed so much, or is this “Doc” actually making a positive difference around here? 

“Huh. I think it’s both,” she muses aloud, and Alfred gives her an intrigued look. He’s decked out in all black, an extremely good look for him, and his jacket is resting around Tiffany’s shoulders. She had a chance to go shopping earlier and get just a couple of things to wear until she can figure out exactly what she's going to do next. The red spaghetti-strap dress isn't exactly sensible, making it a perfect choice as far as she's concerned. Still...wearing Alfred’s clothes is her new favorite fashion statement. 

“What’s that?”

“Oh, I was thinking about Doc, that the Narrows is looking fairly decent actually these days. We might actually have a leader who wants the best for us this time. Funny how good things seem to happen all at once, even if it sort of takes forever for them to show up in your life.” She kisses his cheek and then he stops short, arrested by something he sees in the window of a bar they’re passing.

“That’s Harvey Bullock — well, speak of the devil,” Alfred mutters. “D’you mind if we step in for a moment, darling? Harvey’s an old mate. I’d like to know what he’s doing tending bar, how he ended up an outcast like myself.”

“You know, you get really nosy when you care about someone,” Tiffany jokes. “It’s adorable. Come on, introduce me.” 

“Alfred Pennyworth, you old dog! Look at you, out on the town with a solid ten hottie!” Harvey shakes Alfred’s hand with his usual boisterous enthusiasm, seeming reluctant to acknowledge the darker days he must have fallen on. He adds, looking at Tiffany, “If you don’t mind my saying so, miss.”

“That’s perfectly alright,” Tiffany grins, “Mostly because you said ‘Miss’ instead of ‘Ma’am.’ That’s always good for a few brownie points.”

“I like her,” Harvey chuckles, “First drinks on the house, guys, pull up a stool. What the hell are you doing out here anyway, mate?” He lays a really bad English accent on the last word, making them both laugh.

“I was actually going to ask you the same thing,” Alfred replies smoothly. Harvey instinctively slides a cold glass of Chardonnay in Tiffany’s direction and a whiskey on the rocks in Alfred’s. “Why are you working here instead of with the police?”

“Long, depressing story,” Harvey reflects, rubbing his beard as if he’s trying to come up with a quick and effective subject change. But he doesn’t have to wait long for the answer.

Just then, Gil bursts through the door of the bar with several members of his gang in tow. He’s breathing heavy, hatred burning in his malevolent blue eyes, and veins are bulging in his neck. “You two,” he fumes at Alfred and Tiffany, “Have got some fucking _explaining_ to do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from the song "Hang Up Tha Phone" by Kiiara.


End file.
